


No Shortage Of Death

by Immortal713



Category: None - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 04:17:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21488212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immortal713/pseuds/Immortal713





	No Shortage Of Death

The inferno raged, consuming the museum as Heatstroke ran, the pounding of his feet the only sound to be heard in the dead night. He could see flashing red and blue lights in the distance, but he was sure he would get away before they thought to investigate. A nice little stash too, some of the choice gems from the private collection. 

The patter of feet snapped Heatstroke out of his thoughts, and he ducked behind a truck, peeking out to look for whatever had made the noise. There was a man walking down the street, alone. The streetlight only illuminated his profile, a bald head with a hooked nose, reflecting off the dark skin. He didn’t look like he was armed. 

Heatstroke chewed on his lip for a second. He slowly moved out of the shadow of the truck and walked towards the man, casually, very casually. He sauntered towards the man, shifting the sack from one shoulder to the other.

Just as he was about to pass the stranger, he saw him make a strange movement. Almost as if he was…. waving to someone. 

That was the last thought that passed through the mind of the thief/arsonist known as Heatstroke. What passed through his mind soon after was a .308 bullet, perfectly spearing his cerebellum. 

The man in the street regarded the body in the street, blood pooling around the head. His walkie-talkie crackled.

‘Ismael? Is he dead? Over.’

‘Confirming. Over.’

He leaned over the body, careful to avoid the bright red hand, and reached for the neck, searching for a pulse. After a minute, he stopped, and pressed the walkie-talkie.

‘No pulse. Should I carry out final check? Over.’

‘If you’re sure. Over.’

Ismael pulled out a bone saw. This was the worst part of the job. Gingerly, he lined up the saw with the dead man’s neck. 

The man on the roof sighed, and rubbed his forehead. The appearances were ramping up.


End file.
